


Desideratum

by FAB900



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: Angst, Bad Dirty Talk, Drug Abuse, Drug Withdrawal, Dry Orgasm, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Forced Orgasm, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Original Male Character - Freeform, Multiple Orgasms, Pathetic Norman Jayden, Racism, Rape, References to Religion, Rough Oral Sex, non-canon backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FAB900/pseuds/FAB900
Summary: Kinder than reality, crueller than the dream-esque world of ARI - Norman hung on the precipice of what was real and what was not, the pain from the stone grating against his knees and nipples on each thrust counteracted by the numbing ecstasy that came from Triptocaine.At last, Norman was content.Jack wasn't.





	Desideratum

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't tag everything - so if you're sensitive in any way, you probably shouldn't read any further.  
> Mentioned OC and backstory is mostly for angst, by the way. Don't take it too seriously.  
> (My proofreading got lazy too. Shame on me if there's any errors, I guess).

A miserable day, just like any other.

Those were the words that ran through FBI Agent Norman Jayden’s head when he pulled up to the junkyard. He had a clue that had led him there – a slim one, so microscopic that any other agent would’ve barely looked twice at it.

Norman knew he didn’t have a lot of options, however. It was the only lead he had – frustratingly, Ethan Mars had managed to get away earlier on in the day and that left them without any answers. So he was back at square one. Again.

He hadn’t bothered to bring Blake – not that he could find him at the office in the first place, and Norman couldn’t really muster up the will to care where the man had gone to. He was an asshole, plain and simple. It was easier just to let him be and only interact with the lieutenant when it was strictly necessary.  

Being alone didn’t bother Norman, anyway. It wasn’t new to him – his intelligence and awkwardness had ostracised him from most social circles and his colleagues a long time ago. Norman pretended not to care…but in the long nights when the tremors started and blood dripped from his nose, sometimes, only sometimes, did Norman wish that he had someone, _anyone_ to talk to again.

Someone real, tangible, and not something simulated out of loneliness.

It wasn’t the time to be pitying himself, even if he _was_ feeling sick and his shirt was damp with perspiration. A child was on the brink of losing their life – he should get a move on, find the Origami Killer, and crack the case.

He pulled out his ARI glasses out of the glovebox, and left the car.

**|||\\\\\||||///|||**

‘Mad Jack’ had been a wholly unpleasant man upon their first meeting. A surly and unwelcoming heap of rippling muscles, Norman had felt tiny in comparison. It was intimidating – especially when the agent realised that they were most likely alone in a towering wasteland of broken cars and other assorted machinery.

But Norman was an adult, a ‘big boy’, a professional. He wasn’t going to let some knuckleheaded loon get the better of him.

…Which was why it stung so badly when Jack had pressed the muzzle of a gun to the back of his head, too preoccupied in the fact he had stumbled upon a fucking _skull_ in an acid bath.  

“One of your cop buddies asking too many questions…” Jack patted him down, pawing at his chest and leaving greasy stains on the agent’s pristine shirt. “I had to solder up his little mouth…” more touching, the oily sweaty smell coming from the labourer almost making Norman’s eyes water.

The gun Norman had in his pocket was swiftly found and thrown away, leaving him vulnerable. Not telling anyone where he had gone seemed more and more like a bad idea as time went on – not that anyone would have cared enough to check up on him. If he died here, he didn’t know how long it would be before his corpse was discovered. Maybe never.

“Hands on your head, pig,” the gun jabbed the back of Norman’s head painfully. “I ain’t got time to be playing around with you. Let’s get you outta sight and finish you off…”

Jack shoved him in the direction of the ominous hook in the middle of the warehouse, gun squarely trained onto his back as they slowly inched their way towards it.

_Gotta find a way out of this, think of something, anything…_

He kicked at the small dolly near him and grabbed a wrench from the nearby work bench, trading blows with the ex-convict. Stumbling at a powerful jab, Norman yelled as he was picked up and hauled onto the bonnet of a car, narrowly missing getting skewered by the iron pipe Jack was trying to hit him with.

What Norman lacked in raw power, he made up for speed – he dodged all the attacks aimed at him and snatched the gun that lay on the floor, shrugging off the criminal and sending him sprawling into the oil barrels when he charged at him.

He had won. For now.

**|||\\\\\|||///|||**

Paco at the Blue Lagoon. Norman had a new lead – it was something, at least. His palms were sweaty as he trained the gun on Jack, and it wasn’t from exertion alone, a dull throb emanating from behind his eyes.

“We’ll continue this discussion down at the station. You’re under arrest.” his grip wavered on the gun, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything…” his voice trailed off when his vision began to blur. Something trickled out of his nose, and he wiped it away.

“Shit…not now…” this couldn’t be happening. Not _now_. He tried to continue, “…anything you say can and will be…” his eyes rolled, and the world began to tilt.

“Hey, you look like you got a problem, man…” the chuckle was sinister, deep, pitch-shifted. Even with his ghosted vision, Norman could see Mad Jack’s sly smile.

_Why now. Why?!_

The investigator fumbled in his pockets for the vial of Triptocaine – reject it be damned, he had a killer to arrest. A little wouldn’t hurt, right? He had resisted back in the hotel. It was affecting his work – he needed it, and he needed it _now_.

In his haste, the tube slipped from his hands and skidded on the concrete to a respectable distance.

_No, no, no!_

Norman barely heard Jack mocking him when he fell to his knees, throwing away his gun to crawl towards the tiny vial that contained a little piece of heaven.

“What? They letting you dopeheads in the FBI now?”

He was almost there – so close, so close, he could almost _taste_ the relief he would feel if he could just—

Reaching out a shaking hand, Norman nearly burst into tears when Jack snatched up the vial in front of his very eyes.

“I-It’s mine…give it ba-back.”

Sneering, Jack shook the bottle in front of his face and swatted the agent’s hand away when he tried to grab for it, “you want this, Mr. Investigator? Say the magic word.”

“…P-Please.” begging to a criminal for a hit. Norman really had hit the lowest of the lows, and he knew it. His cheeks coloured in shame. If he had been a stronger man, he might not have been in this position.

Who was he kidding?

Norman had slipped on the ARI glasses to impress _him_ , Stanley - once his partner at work, but the only company his friend kept now was the worms six feet under.

Stanley had supposed to have been the one involved with the ARI project, however cautious reluctance had made Norman take his place eagerly for the praise and favour he'd get from the confident, cocky older man. The pat on his back and the mumbled _'thanks’_ almost made up for the years of drugs and hallucinations he had to deal with since.

Not really. They should've just refused and Stanley would've _lived_. He wouldn't - Norman wouldn't have--

His partner wouldn't have had to have taken a bullet for him, when a regular chase on a perpetrator went wrong when Norman's constant chasing of brief moments of paradise in a virtual fantasy world finally took their toll on his mind.

It should have been a routine drugs bust - Norman had cornered one of the perps while Stanley had chased another. But his hands had shook, and reality twisted and he had suddenly been in ARI, with fake-Stanley telling sweet words that Norman knew he'd never hear from the man himself--

The perpetrator had a gun. He had gone to shoot, but Stanley had found him, pushed him out of the way...and took the bullet that Norman always felt that he deserved much more than the bright, brilliant man with a promising future.

Triptocaine had been pushed into his hands by his boss shortly after to 'negate the negative symptoms of ARI’, and that had been the beginning of the end. It veered him off the comforting tracks that made up his life and sent his wheels spinning uncontrollably.

An absolute train wreck of a man, he was. Destined to a life of isolation in his small, crummy apartment, Stanley's booming laughter that had once filled it during their drunken celebrations just a distant echo in his memories.

“Mhmm…nah,” Jack threw the vial palm-to-palm, causing Norman to snap out of his trip down memory lane, “junkies don’t deserve to get what they want. Where’d you even get this shit anyway? Never seen it before…”

Sniffing, Norman hesitated before speaking, “w-work.”

“The FBI? Shit, now I wanna join if they’re giving away free candy.”

Norman managed a weak laugh, “like…like they’d let a brainless, stupid, ugly _murderer_ like y-you in—” shit, what was he doing, aggravating someone who was probably going to kill him? Jack snarled, thick hand dragging the agent to his knees by his face, squishing the man’s hollowed cheeks together and shoving the rounded edge of the tube up Norman’s non-bleeding nostril. He sniffed around it desperately, trying to just get a _little—_

“Shut the fuck up, druggie. You think you’re so fucking better than everyone else…yet you’re the one cryin’ like a little girl on the floor,” Jack spat on Norman’s face, a glob of saliva landing on his forehead. Scrunching up his face, Norman tried to pull away only to freeze as a thumb rubbed at his lips. “Damn…you look ‘ight for a white boy…heh…I think I know what those fuckers keep you around for…”

“I – I don’t get what you’re implying…” Norman choked out, trying to twist out of the bigger man’s grip. Acid churned in his stomach, heart thudding madly. “Knock it off, or I’ll arrest you—”

A hard slap across the agent's face made him reel.

“You think a fucking loser like _you_ could arrest me? I don’t think so. Think it’s time I taught you your place, boy—” Jack hauled him to his feet, dragging the off-balanced man to the little shed some distance away. “—gets a little lonely around here, y’know? Show me a good time with that pretty little mouth and ass of yours, and I’ll give you your shit back, alright?”

Feeling his heart drop into the pit of his stomach, Norman’s mouth went dry at the realisation of what was about to happen.

_I’m going to get raped here._

Norman flailed against the hold on him, struggling all the way to the shed. He was too weak, too shaky to resist properly, however, and dread washed over him once they stepped over the threshold of the entrance.

With a squeak of the hinges and a click of the doorknob, they were soon both trapped in the enclosed space of the shack.

_This can’t be happening. I need to get out – I need to run!_

There was nowhere _to_ run. Mad Jack was blocking the door, the window was too small and there was nothing to use as a weapon nearby, the only thing that seemed viable was to smash the old-fashioned TV over the taller man’s head and make a dash for it.

The sound of a gun – _his_ gun being cocked instantly threw the idea out of the profiler’s mind. Jack had picked up the gun, and Norman mentally kicked himself for not noticing sooner.

Norman was, as Blake would eloquently put it – fucked, in every sense of the word. The FBI agent paled when he spotted the bundle of sheets acting as a makeshift bed in the corner. He hadn’t paid attention to it during his investigation, but now–?

“You misbehave, and I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head, we clear?” Norman nodded. He couldn’t die here – there was a serial killer on the loose, he needed to save Shaun—

Jack twisted him around and pushed him to his knees, crotch pressed against the investigator’s face. The cold bite of metal against his cheek kept him steady as he allowed the massive hulk of a man grind his clothed, flaccid cock on his face, feeling it slowly harden up underneath the stiff material of Jack’s overalls.

“Come on, _agent_. Get a move on.”

With trembling hands, Norman untied the knotted sleeves hanging around the man’s waist and hated how his fumbling fingers and swimming vision made such an easy task suddenly the most difficult thing in the world.

He didn’t want to do this. But he didn’t have much choice – not when every time he looked up, the black void of the gun’s barrel stared him back down.

“Slow-ass motherfucker, either you get suckin’ or I’ll splatter your goddamn brains on the wall.” Jack jabbed the gun for emphasis and slowly tipped the tube of Tripto.

Alarmed, Norman grabbed at the man’s overalls and underwear and pulled them down his muscular thighs, “stop – don’t spill it – I’ll do it, I just—”

“Heh – knew it would be the drugs to convince you. You really are just a dopehead, aren’t you?” laughing meanly, Mad Jack put the gun down on the floor and kicked it somewhere, the sound of metal screeching against concrete, “I want my hands free for this.”

Norman had barely noticed the loss of the gun on his forehead, too surprised by the length and girth of the flaccid organ in front of him. The musky smell emanating from it almost made his red-rimmed eyes water, sweat and oil and dirt and God-knows-what making the agent’s stomach clench in disgust.

No way was that _gross_ thing going to fit into his mouth – he wasn’t even sure _how_ to do it. An awkward, clumsy fumble with a fifteen-year-old boy at the tender age of thirteen in a (not-so) deserted corner of his private school had been his brief flirtation with homosexuality.

The encounter had ended badly with them getting caught – their parents had been called. His mother had wept with her bible clutched to her chest all the way home, and had done very little to stop father from undoing his belt and cracking it ominously between his hands.

_You’ve been tainted by the devil, son. This is for your own good._

Norman’s scar tingled. The accidental slip of the belt buckle had _hurt._

It was a permanent reminder of his liaison with sin itself. Needless to say, Norman hadn’t indulged in _that_ way ever again.

Realising he was taking too long, Norman lifted his hand. His glove-covered one; there was no fucking way he was touching Jack’s filthy cock with his bare one. Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the limp member, noting that he could barely get his fingers to meet.

Hoping that the man was a shower, rather than a grower, Norman tugged at the girth.

The groan Mad Jack made almost made him throw up. The cramps in his abdomen worsened, pain rippling through his muscles as he set a steady pace, similar to the one he used while masturbating. Not that Norman did _that_ much anymore, not with his sex-drive at an all-time low and a cock that remained unresponsive.

The organ in his grip thickened, pulsing and throbbing hot even through the latex of his glove. It wasn’t long before it was fully erect, a web of veins jutting out violently against the dark shaft, winding underneath the skin like vines.

Norman’s lip curled in disgust when his movement grew slicker from the man’s pre-cum, coating the highly sophisticated glove device and dulled LEDs at his fingertips with the watery substance.

Perhaps he should’ve used his other hand, then realised he was going to need to anyway; dismayed at the fact that his appendages could barely wrap around the circumference any longer.

Or, he could just use his mouth, but he was trying to put doing _that_ off—

A sharp slap across Norman’s face brought him into temporary clarity, the fog in his brain lifting.

“I told you to use your fuckin’ mouth, so get to it. Or do you not want your kicks today, pig?” Jack snarled, shoving a hand into the agent’s hair and tugging him towards his cock. The head of it slid against his lips, pre-cum smearing a glossy coat on them.

Tightening his lips into a line and mustering the last few dregs of his self-worth, the investigator resolutely refused to open his mouth.

_Just resist. He doesn’t have the gun pointed at me – I don’t_ NEED _Tripto – resist, refuse, don’t lower yourself—_

He let out a startled gasp when Jack pinched his nose together, cutting off all the air in his lungs. In sheer panic, Norman tried to jerk away but failed miserably, the grip on his hair and nose far too strong for him to deal with in his weakened state.

Knowing that he would soon need to breathe, he reluctantly opened his mouth and felt the engorged length begin to slide past his chapped lips, mouth stretched impossibly wide as it just kept on coming. Sated at being granted access, Jack released his nose and Norman breathed in rapidly, frustrated when his one nostril was completely blocked-up with blood.

The taste of the ex-convict was awful; salted with sweat from a hard day’s labour and an overwhelming muskiness that pervaded Norman’s nostrils. The texture, too, was something else. Rigid and yielding with crinkled foreskin that rubbed like sandpaper against the agent’s arid tongue.   

Norman whimpered, eyes burning and bottom lip wobbling when the tip touched the entrance to his throat.

_Don’t cry, for fuck’s sake, Norman. Don’t be so pathetic. You’ll only encourage this scumbag more if you show your weaknesses._

Chastising himself for his weaknesses wasn’t going to make what was coming any easier, or better. His jaw felt stretched to its limit; and there was still more of it to come.

The first shallow thrust into his mouth caught him off-guard, the tip brushing against his uvula making him gag. In alarm, his hands flew to Jack’s thighs and he pushed himself off quickly, gasping for air while also fighting down the urge to vomit.

“What the fuck? Suck it, dumbass.” the vial tipped in warning, fine sprinkles falling to the floor like snow, salt, sugar—

“—Wait, wait! I was just – I’ve never – please, don’t—” Norman clumsily pressed his mouth to the shaft, unskilled tongue slobbering over a vein in an attempt to please the taller male.

Jack snorted, shoving the Triptocaine into his pocket of his overalls. “You’re fucking terrible at this, junkie. Guess I was wrong about you having to suck dick to get your hits after all…” he tapped the investigator's cheek a few times, each hit a little harder. The skin prickled.

Norman's face burned in embarrassment. He had always hated fucking things up; it wasn’t in his nature to. Not with the pressures of being an only child and a genius to boot – he still had nightmares about the tinny jangle of metal and leather smacking against his flesh in his youth.

He had deserved it. That’s what father always said; if Norman only ever came home with a ‘B’ on his report card or got second-place in whatever competition his parents had entered him into – it was his fault, end of. A lazy slacker, tainted by the devil, and he would amount to nothing in his future.

Both of Jack’s hands were in his hair by the time he came out of his recollections of his childhood, pulling him back so the shiny head nestled against the investigator’s lips again.

Jack hummed contemplatively, tugging Norman’s head into different angles. His eyes were predatory, feral, and the smaller man shirked away from the intense gaze, feeling too exposed.

All those years studying criminal psychology seemed to have vanished as soon as he had been locked within the four walls of timber with an ex-convict. Taunting, acting vulnerable and submitting to the man – he was giving him power.

Pain blossomed on Norman’s cheek when Jack struck him, _hard_ ; cupping the back of his head with one hand to keep him steady while the other palm hit him with a blinding force. The profiler’s vision doubled, tripled, _quadrupled,_ and reeling from the impact, he glared at Jack with contempt.

“The fuck—?” another slap shut him up. And then another. Jack wasn’t aiming well – a clip on his nose made fresh blood trickle onto his upper lip.

Humiliating. Norman had been in numerous self-defence classes as required of him when he had joined the FBI, and had passed all of them with flying colours – so it infuriated him that he couldn’t do _anything_ to protect himself _,_ instead just sitting on the floor like an obedient little dog and letting the horrible man degrade him.

It stung. Oh, it did. Not just physically, but mentally, too.

Another slap. His eyes burned.

Jack jeered at him cruelly, “you gonna cry, pig? A smart boy like you gonna cry ‘cause I stole your candy? Weak-ass,” he stopped hitting him, grabbing a hold of his cock to plop it unceremoniously onto the agent’s face, “motherfucker. I’ll give you something to _really_ cry about.” and with that statement, the criminal wrenched his jaw open and attempted to shove himself completely inside the warm heat of Norman’s mouth.

Norman gagged wetly against the length sliding down his throat – too thick, way too thick – and his teeth glided dangerously against the shaft.

Hissing, Jack tugged at an ear. “If you fucking bite me, cunt, you’ll be taking a dip in the bath outside. Don’t fuckin’ piss me off.”

This was really happening. There was no way out. It was either suck, or die.

Norman groaned, in frustration.

Jack groaned, too, but in pleasure, fisting the agent’s hair roughly and forcing him down, more, _more—_

The creased folds of the labourer’s foreskin rubbing against his tongue was wrong, the feel of the leaking tip entering his throat was wrong, everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Half-way down. Norman’s hands tightened on the man’s powerful thighs, and he wasn’t sure if it was he or Jack that was sweating, perspiration slick underneath his palms.

Mad Jack didn’t stop pushing, and Norman didn’t stop resisting.

The ex-convict lost his patience – and, using the brown locks of the smaller man as leverage, shoved himself completely into Norman’s throat.

Norman’s eyes widened at the repulsive thing travelling down his gullet, nose reaching the black, odorous pubic hair of the man. Throat convulsing in protest, he thumped his fists against the dark muscles. He needed to breathe – he couldn’t breathe – he only had one nostril—

Jack ignored him, “oh, fuuuuck – you gotta tight throat, druggie – ah – shit, who’s a good little cocksucker, eh?” the nausea in Norman’s stomach crawled its way up his oesophagus, the glands in the back of his mouth tingling. His mouth watered, the surplus amount of spit spilling from the tight corners of his lips.

He was going to vomit, and, if on cue, he started to heave around the dick the in his mouth, choking on the foul man’s cock.

No – he couldn’t be sick. Swallowing down the awful, acidic bitter mixture of hours-old vodka and coffee, Norman squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regulate his breathing.

It was a bad idea. Not being able to see just made the sensation of that rigid, meaty cock plugging up his throat feel so much more intense, real – it was so, so gross, down from the bumpy texture of the veins sliding against his lips to the man’s heavy sac smacking against his chin as the pace grew faster.

“—got my dick sucked by a lot dudes in prison, but – fuck, none of them could take it as good as _you_ , slut—” Jack threw his head back, grunting as he pressed himself balls-deep into the man’s orifice, “—oh yeah, take it you filthy whore, this is all you’re good for—”

Something trickled down Norman’s tinted cheeks, warm and wet.

The dam had been broken, and now his tears were falling.

“Fucking sissy can’t even handle sucking a bit of dick,” Jack sneered, using a finger to prod Norman’s bulging cheek, “at least your tears are fuckin’ hot, open your eyes so I can see them better,” the order went ignored.

Jack huffed, “I said – open your Goddamn eyes—” he snapped his hips sharply into Norman’s mouth, fucking through the man’s gag reflex, “you think this is a fucking joke? Do you WANT me cave your skull in, huh? OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!”

Norman jumped at the sudden increase of tone, and, with the last remaining bit of his strength, tore himself away from Jack’s cock, throwing himself onto the floor to hack wetly against the dirty concrete.

His lungs hurt, burning from the lack of air.

His throat hurt, rubbed raw and tender.

His lips hurt, puffy and split.

Opening his eyes, Norman heard Jack laughing at him; but the noise was far-away. Everything felt so far away – the door, the corners of the small room that once encased him like a cage suddenly stretching out into a black void of nothingness and the shining metal of the gun in the gloomy lighting—

The gun. It was – coming closer - so close, and Norman’s hand shook when he reached out for it—

Only to grab onto nothing.

Confused, Norman blinked.

The gun wasn’t there.

Jack’s laugh was louder and the room was as tiny as it ever was; claustrophobic and oppressive.

“The fuck you doin’, junkie? Your brain busted? Fuck – our tax dollars get spent fuelling brainless druggies like _you._ Enough to make a man cry, I tell ya’.” the man sniggered, roughly manhandling Norman back towards his erection.

_I doubt a shithead like you has ever paid taxes, though._

Sagging in defeat, Norman willed himself to relax as much as he could and awaited the man to start fucking his mouth again.

“ _Look at the state of you. Is this what my son has become?”_

Father's voice reprimanding him and the closing in of the walls around him was making it very hard for the agent to relax, however.

_Ignore it. This is paltry compared to some of my other hallucinations, it'll go away. They eventually do._

Norman didn’t know where to look when the girth entered his mouth again. His throat tightened, gagging almost immediately as he was guided to the base. Jack didn’t bother to even let Norman get adjusted; rolling his pelvis forward and using the smaller man’s hair to guide him down.

He hated the feel of the man’s penis. How scalding hot it was, or the way it pulsed against his tongue. He especially detested the smooth, almost velvety texture of it as it rammed down his throat and the burst of saltiness against his palate – he wasn’t sure if it was pre-cum, tears or his own blood that he could taste.

Every fibre of Norman’s body screamed with how much he loathed Mad Jack and the humiliating, violating act he was being put through – but no matter how much he despised the man, there was no-one else he hated more at that moment.

Himself.

He hated who he had become. The bright boy who excelled in school, the troubled teen who ran away from Boston to pursue his dream of helping others – and now he was the man who was currently sucking a dick to get back his hit.

His parents were probably turning in their graves right now at what their son had turned out to be.

A pathetic, lonely drug addict.

Norman whined at the thought, and Jack grunted at the resulting vibrations. He buried himself deeper, brushing against the kneeling man’s tonsils—

That made Norman choke again. He pulled himself from the length, took a few deep gulps of air that Mad Jack graciously allowed him to swallow in before being pulled back onto the expectant cock.  

Their pace continued like that for some time, and all the agent wanted was for the other man to finish. He dared to peek at the grotesque contortions of Jack’s pleasured face, which was enough to make him heave again, excess drool covering his chin and lips in a glossy sheen.  

Jack didn’t let him go, moving his hands to the back of Norman’s head and making him still around the base of his cock.

It hurt. The cracked corners of Norman’s mouth felt like they were splitting from being stretched so wide, his jaw was tired and his throat was sore from the hammering it was getting, the convulsing muscles in his gullet overworked from retching so much.

It totally wasn’t his day. And it wasn’t going to get any better, either.

Jack’s palms were damp, and Norman’s weren’t faring much better. He was soaked all over, flushed and clammy and he didn’t have a clue if it was from the rain or his own sweat. He shivered violently in the dank, musty air of the room, silence only interrupted by the sloppy sounds of his violent gagging and the convict’s increasingly loud groans.

Fuck. He really did fucking hate the cold, and the rain, and this shed, and this man, and his life--

“S-Shit, I’m gunna come—” the thrusting got faster, deeper, and bitterness coated Norman’s tongue. “Make sure you fuckin’ swallow it, slut.”

Norman would’ve rather have been shot than consume Jack’s filthy load. So he didn’t; he fought, instead, digging his nails hard into the skin of the man’s thighs, so hard blood pooled underneath his fingertips.

Jack howled in pain, cursing as he yanked the agent off his sensitive organ, “the FUCK is wrong with you, dude? Fuck, you just don’t learn your fuckin’ lesson, do you? Guess I’ll have to teach you, huh?”

The room was spinning, but Norman scraped together every last ounce of willpower he had, and ran towards the door—

Only to be met by the solid, firm wood slating on the wall, colliding painfully against the grain.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re goin’?!” Jack snarled, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and turning him around. Norman struggled wildly – and, this time, Jack didn’t slap him.

He fucking punched him. Norman tasted blood upon his lips; it had split from the blow. The power of it made him stumble onto the floor, falling backwards onto the pile of blankets that rested of the floor.

Stunned, Norman didn’t have time to move as Jack sat on his chest, stroking his erection furiously right over his face.

He couldn’t breathe. Jack was way too fucking heavy to be sitting on his chest – all hundreds of pounds of muscle crushing his lungs and leaving him breathless. Jack didn’t appear to care; hand twisting expertly on his shaft and the slick sounds of spit, pre-cum, and, with some horror, Norman realised his own blood – almost invisible against Mad Jack’s dark skin.

“Struggle all you want, Mr. Agent, all it does is get me goin’ even more,” panted Jack, licking his lips as he looked into Norman’s fearful eyes. His hand never slowed down, the movements becoming more hurried as he headed towards his inevitable peak.

The hand that wasn’t stroking his cock wrenched Norman’s jaw open, the man shifting upwards a bit to directly masturbate over his face.

Grimacing at the ugly-looking organ hovering above him, Norman shut his eyes, and awaited the unavoidable coating of ejaculation that was surely about to come.

And come, it did – Jack’s increasingly loud vocalisations drowned out the pouring rain outside as he rapidly touched himself.

“Remember: drink it up or I’ll get mad – and trust me. You won’t like it when I’m ma— fuck, fuck!” he stilled suddenly, coming hard with a broken grunt as Norman felt a scorching, sticky wetness drip onto his face.

He could close his eyes, but not his mouth. The nausea returned with a vengeance as some of the labourer’s seed dribbled onto Norman’s tongue.

It was gross, and _everywhere,_ covering the investigator’s face like a mask.

Norman refused to swallow any, but Jack didn’t seem to care, squeezing out the last few drops onto the man’s lips before dipping his softening cock into the mouth.

Whining, Norman thumped at the sheets in protest. Jack ignored him; thrusting shallowly into the shorter man’s mouth, plugging the semen into his throat.

Once satisfied, Jack pulled out and gave a few taps to Norman’s cheek. The one that was becoming bruised from the punch earlier – the sting made his eyes water. But he didn’t complain. Going against him was just going to make the situation worse.

“Phew – that was pretty good.” Jack wiped the sweat from his brow as he reached into his pocket. Hopeful, Norman jerked to alertness. “What are you getting excited for? This is for _me._ We aren’t done _yet._ ”

He pulled out a small plastic bag, filled with white crystals.

_Cocaine._

Mad Jack tipped some onto his fist and snorted it, sniffing loudly.

He sounded like a pig. He _was_ a pig. Tears of frustration leaked from the corners of Norman’s eyes – the man was a fucking murderer. Of course a blowjob wasn’t going to be _enough._

“You know,” Jack began, gathering some leftover particles on his index finger and rubbing it onto his gums, “the last time I took this shit; I didn’t stop ploughing this chick for over three hours. Think you could keep up, pi—? Ugh!”

A well-aimed glob of cum and spit landed directly onto Jack’s chin, who looked almost incredulous as he wiped it off with the hem of his grimy vest.

Norman tried to hide his smirk at the stupid expression the convict was pulling.

The disbelief wore off, twisting into sheer anger.

The growl Jack made was almost inhumane; animalistic, even. The sound of it invoked an involuntary spike of fear in Norman, and he froze.

He couldn’t react to the fist coming towards him, moving with such a speed that he could have sworn he heard the wind whistle from the movement.

The impact of it was devastating – but Norman couldn’t think of anything else as he fell into the sweet relief of darkness.

**|||\\\\\|||///|||**

The pain in his temples hadn’t gone away, headache pulsing behind his eyes. Nor had the churning sickness and stickiness upon his face, and the shaking in his hands—

Odd. It appeared that his hands _weren’t_ shaking for once.

Blinking away the last dregs of concussion, Norman immediately realised he had been flipped over onto his stomach and propped up onto his knees. He wriggled around, finding that his hands had been tied behind his back with what he assumed was his own tie—

His clothes. They were gone, bar his glove. His skin prickled with goose bumps, but his body felt so very _warm_ , flushing with embarrassment at being so exposed.

It couldn’t compare to the fact that _there was something INSIDE of him._

Something _else_ was entering him too – a small, rounded tube. Joining the other one that rested in his anus.

It was vials of his Triptocaine, the agent recognised.

His body tensed all over as he contracted his muscles to push them _out,_ they weren’t supposed to go in there – where did Jack even get more of them from anyway? He kicked his legs out, trying to get away—

A harsh slap on his ass cheeks halted him.

“You awake, princess?” Norman heard Jack slurping around what he presumed was another tube and got confirmation when the spit-soaked tip of it pressed against his stretched rim moments later. “Sure had a lot of these in your car. You really are a fuckin’ addict, aren’t ya’?”

“Stop – please – stop, stop,” tears streaked down Norman’s face, humiliation burning through him when Jack’s only response was to use a thumb to stretch his hole. The cold plastic clinked as it penetrated him, knocking against the other bottles inside of him.

It burned when it was pushed to its full extent, the pressure against his internal walls suggesting that there were probably far more tubes in him than he could possibly comprehend right at that moment in time; panic running through his muddled brain and confusing him further.

Jack breathed heavily from behind him; smacking his lips in a way that made Norman want to shrivel up and die on the spot as Jack began to speak.

“Hey – whore—” Jack had said lowly, slowly twisting the vials as he spoke, “if you can guess how many are in you…I’ll let you have a tube, yeah?”

Norman swallowed, considering, “w…what if I get it w-wrong?” he shifted his weight so he could look behind him.

Jack’s face twisted into a sinister smirk, tongue running over his thick lips as he almost lovingly caressed the agent’s rear.

“That would spoil the surprise.”

Norman shivered in fear. Swallowing thickly, he weighed up his options.

Take Mad Jack up on his little game and hope he won, just to get a hit? Or risk getting it wrong, and facing the wrath of the man?

Visions of the body in the acid bath came to Norman – but so did the sweet blissfulness that came from a Triptocaine hit too.

He made his decision.

“…Okay.” Norman said meekly, shamefully bowing his head down. He couldn’t see that far back; there was no point in trying to cheat and count them that way.

Jack laughed, the noise as ominous as always.

“That’s the spirit,” he slapped Norman’s ass encouragingly, “I’ll give you a hint, so sit tight.”

_Not like I can move anyway, asshole._

Biting back the snarky retort, Norman waited for the hint. He didn't hold much hope that a crackhead with possibly only a double-digit IQ could actually formulate a useful clue of some kind, so the crawling anxiety worsened as he became more on edge as time passed.

Mad Jack had gone quiet, too quiet--

Quite suddenly, all the tubes within him were yanked out in one, leaving him empty.

“Ow! Fuck - what are you doing?!” Norman yelped, toes curling against the sunken mattress in pain.

The frigid air brushing against the deepest, most intimate parts of him drove it home just how exposed the agent was, and that a part of him that nobody had ever seen before was so cruelly on display to a man he detested made him feel furious with all the anger he could muster.

A thin string of saliva dripped from Norman's gaping hole, his sphincter quivering in an attempt to close. However many he had had in him, it had stretched him beyond belief.

“Aw, cute. It's winking at me.” a finger circled the rim, and he arched away in disgust. Hadn't his tormenter disrespected him enough?

A smack on his ass made him recoil more. “Didn't I tell ya to sit tight? _‘Jacky-boy’_ \--” Mad Jack imitated his voice, and Norman cringed with how pathetic it sounded - did people really hear him like that? - “was gonna be kind, but you go crawling away from a little touch. Jesus, man - you're acting like a fuckin’ born-again virgin or some shit--”

Norman froze.

Jack did not miss the way the agent tensed up all over, or the way his tied-up hands clenched tight.  

“...This is a joke, right? Your badge said you were thirty-four - who the fuck doesn't get their dick wet at that age?!” Mad Jack sounded incredulous, “what's the matter? Is your cock broken? It didn't react at all when I was tugging at it when you were out cold - you got a limp dick, man? Heh, Agent Limp-Dick has a ring to it--”

“--Shut the fuck up, shut up, shut up,” the tears were audible in Norman's shaky voice, ears burning red from shame as he really, really just wanted the ground to swallow him whole at the thought of Jack molesting him while he slept, “maybe my dick just doesn't react to ugly fuckers like you--”

The moment of satisfaction he got for insulting the hulk of a man was short-lived, and he screamed loudly when all of the tubes of Tripto were rammed back in, twisting deep inside.

“You think your fuckin’ smart, don't ya, whitey? Yet you're crying like a little momma's boy. Time to wake up, sunshine - _this_ is _your_ reality right now,” the twisting got more intense, scraping along the side of his colon, “and it's about to get a. Whole. Lot. Worse.”

Norman's heart sank to his stomach as he heard the tell-tale scrape of a belt buckle, _his_ belt on the hard floor.

_Anything but this._

The movements inside of him stopped.

The belt cracked loudly between Jack's hands, and the sound it made as it cut through the air was almost like a whistle, before snapping, painfully, onto the plump flesh of Norman's rear.

“NO--!” another crack. “--I'm s-sorrrrry…! --NO, not again, stop! STOP, PLEEEE--!” Norman squealed in pain, covering up Mad Jack's whoops of enjoyment as he brought the thick strap of leather down on Norman's flesh again, and again, and again, a criss-cross of red-raw welts tainting the pale expanse of his thighs, ass and back.

“Squeal for me some more, little piggy! Go on - oinK FoR mOMMa, pIGgY--”

Norman stopped screaming, the world shifting.

Jack's voice, it was changing, changing into--

_“DoN'T go crYing to YOur MoTHeR, boy - ShE KnoWS You DeSErve thIs ToO--”_

“--Dad, stop, it hurts, it hurts, it HURTS, PLEASEpleasepleaseplease, dad, dad, DAD--!”

A devastating blow from the belt hit his rear, his taint, even the delicate swell of his balls, and Norman just about screamed bloody murder at the stinging pain - his body felt like it had been stung by a thousand hornets, the marks burning hot.

Mad Jack whopped in time which each strike, “I'm not your daddy, retard! You need to lay off the drugs, man, they're fucking wit’ ya!” the whipping decreased in intensity before stopping altogether, and Norman took a premature breath of relief.

Then the belt reached around his neck and tightened. Norman choked on the air he had inhaled, and he thrashed around wildly out of fear.

“...did you get it?”  

Confused momentarily, Norman realised where the conversation had jumped to - the hint, the deal for his drugs.

He had missed it. He didn't have a clue - he wouldn't have picked up on it during his 'episode’. The vials in him felt like they were just one, an amalgamation, and Norman couldn't decipher the number on just pressure alone.

He was screwed.

“I...I...didn't get it,” Norman choked out, “c-can I have it a...again?”

The belt around his neck got tighter, starting to constrict the agent's ability to breathe. His breaths turned shallow and fast, partly out of panic, partly from the need to conserve air.

“No fuckin’ way,” snarled Jack as he pulled on the leather strip, making Norman gurgle uncomfortably as it pressed into his Adam's apple, “guess you'll just have to _guess_ , yeah?”

Norman didn't answer. He couldn't fuck up - God, for once in his life, he just _couldn't_.

A yank around his neck urged him for an answer. Norman could feel his face going red, a sign that he wasn't only just being deprived of oxygen - but blood, too, the pressure building up in his head.

Something hot dripped from his nose...again. Another nosebleed. Just what he needed, right then, right _there_.

“C'mon, man, gimme an answer…or maybe you don't want a sniff today after all, hm?”

No, no - all Norman wanted, _needed_ was the sweet, blissful relief from this hell that Triptocaine provided. He barely felt attached to reality - eyes unfocused, head pounding with the utter desire that swam underneath his skin. Every single one of his nerves cried out for the substance that was probably going to kill him one day...yet still, he yearned for it.

“...f...f...fou...r…” Norman's voice was so weak, he barely heard himself.

The belt loosened somewhat, elevating a little of the pressure.

“Whazzat? Speak up--”

“--f-four, I said f-f-f…” teeth chattering, Norman let the rest of the sentence trail off.

“Did'ja just say _more_? Because I can--”

“--No, no! Four! I said FOUR!” Norman struggled to cry out, he felt so _full_ already, he couldn't, _wouldn't_ be able to take any more bottles inside of him.

A dull thump of the belt hitting against the bedcovers, and Norman took in all the air he could, panting loudly as he licked at his dry lips. Inadvertently, he swallowed his own blood - but he didn't care, the taste of air was so, so delicious.

“So you said four…” one of the tubes were removed, “...how about you count them, hmm?”

The man was a sadist, Norman concluded. Only a complete sicko would torture someone like this - Norman had profiled plenty of cruel rapists in his time, and how sickening it was to get into their heads and truly understand how they thought.

No matter how vile it was to 'empathise’ with them, being one of their victims was a whole different story.

Norman couldn't lie. He was _scared_. Scared about what was to come, if he was ever going to make it out of this hellish situation alive or…

...or if he actually got the stupid question right. The Triptocaine tube hit the blanket almost silently, nearly inaudible by Norman's panicked breathing and choked sobs.

“O-one…”

Another one was removed. And another.

“...two, t-th-three…”

And another.

“...four,”

…

...and another.

“.........f...f...f-five…?”

Norman had been off.

By _one_.

He wanted to scream.

It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fucking _fair_.

Mad Jack let out a deep sigh in mock disappointment, “seems like you weren't paying attention to Jacky's hint…” he tutted, patting at the agent's hip.

“I...I...please, don't...don't hurt me, pu-puhlease--”

Then he felt it. A glob of spit hitting against his stretched-open anus, and the slick sounds Mad Jack stroking himself.

Head blanking, Norman led there in shock.

“...Ah, it was a shame that you didn't get the hint...this could've been avoided,” Jack grunted as the sounds of his masturbation stopped. Leaning down, he whispered into Norman's ear, “or maybe not. Maybe my drugs have fucked me in the head too…”

The daze that had blanketed Norman's brain dissipated almost immediately.

“There...there wasn't a hint…” he said, realisation dawning on him, “y-y...you lied to me…” he wanted to be angry, but knowing that his own naiveté had made him believe the brute in the first place just made Norman despair at his own stupidity instead.

Fear and desperation wasn't a good mixture for clear, rational thinking. It was making him dull, gullible.

_Stanley would be disappointed._

Something in Norman snapped at that thought - being seen as a failure in his parents’ eyes was nowhere near as painful as the idea of letting down the one man he had been fond of.

Norman began to struggle against his bonds.

“You lied to me…”

Mad Jack laughed. And laughed, and laughed, the sound filling Norman's head and ringing in his ears.

“You lied to me...you lied to me -- YOU LIED TO ME!” flipping on his back, he kicked Jack in the groin, silencing his cruel noises of enjoyment with a howl of pain.

Norman didn't stick around; clumsily he shuffled to his knees and propped himself against the wall, somehow managing to get onto his feet in an awkward, ungraceful motion. The belt was securely tied around his wrists, so he wobbled to the door off-balance.

Freedom was so _close._

Too early to begin celebrating, the agent realised; a hand wrapped around his ankle, tripping him flat onto his face.

Landing on his already bruised face was excruciating, and Norman cried out in both anguish and surprise. Mad Jack had a face like thunder when he dared to peek; eyes narrowed with a curl to his lip, like a wild animal about to tear the jugular from its prey.

Norman was the prey, and he had just royally fucked up - he kicked away the grip on his ankle and slithered against the floor, paying little attention to the concrete scratching against his sore skin.

Salvation was so near - all that stood between the little few square feet of hell and the great wide world was a solid piece of wood.

Knees aching, he reached up to the door handle and gripped it between his teeth. There was nothing else he could do, not without the use of his hands. The metal was cold against Norman's tongue as he tugged and twisted it hopelessly.

The door was _locked._

Every little glimmer of hope was always so meanly snatched away and torn into pieces in front of his eyes.

It wasn't fair...but maybe this was his comeuppance. Maybe he did deserve this. His own foolishness had gotten a man so important to the agency, his family, colleagues and himself killed.

Norman let go of the handle, sliding down the door and into a sobbing heap.

He was done. Done with this charade of strength, of intellect, of dignity. All he hoped for now wasn't even escape, just the blissful hit of Triptocaine before his inevitable, merciful death.

It would be kinder than keeping him alive.

Mad Jack's footsteps sounded heavy as they got closer, a string of grumbles leaving his mouth. Norman couldn't bring himself to care when the fiend pulled him to his feet by his neck, slamming his face against the door.

It hurt, but everything did, regardless.

The whisper against his ear was hot, tinged with anger: “spunky little guy, aren't ya? It was cute at first but…” the hands went to his waist, hoisting him up until his toes barely touched the ground. Thick, heavy, pressure pressed against his hole--

“...but, it's time for you to stop fucking around! Take it, take it you pig! Scream for me, boy!”

Mad Jack pushed forward, and Norman _screamed._

It fucking hurt. Probably the worst pain Norman had ever felt; white-hot burning pain shooting through him as he got skewered by Jack's cock.

Not enough lubrication made it far too dry, the friction too torturous. Liquid seeped down his leg - he was bleeding. The droplets hit the floor, plopping in tune with the raindrops outside.

And sickeningly, his blood was acting as a lubricant and made the thick girth slip inside him deeper, and deeper, until it was all in, pushing through layers of resisting muscles until Jack's groin was flush against the meat of Norman's ass.

It felt... _wrong **.**_ It shouldn't have been inside of him, it was gross, disgusting, repulsive--

Jack thrusted forward, and Norman forgot how to _breathe_ \- but he wasn't allowed time to adjust as the heinous man stabbed at his abused hole over and over with his ugly, thick cock.

The taste of copper entered his mouth and his saline tears dampened his cheeks as Jack's frenzied movements forced him to slide against the door. The bruising on his cheeks stung as it was repeatedly smashed against the door, the wood hard and unyielding.

“Fuck! Your asshole's fuckin’ TIGHT, my man! How does my cock feel, huh?” he snapped his hips forward, Norman's ass smacking loudly as flesh met upon flesh.

Norman sniffled, blood and snot blocking his nose and making it hard for him to catch a breath.

“...It hurts...it hurts...please...take...take it out…” Norman squeezed his eyes shut and let out a deep sob, too broken, too tired, to resist any harder, “p-please.”

Stopping his animalistic rutting, Jack paused. With the momentary hiatus, it dawned on Norman just how _big_ the other man was. It shouldn't have been a surprise - the brute had rammed it down his throat earlier, but he was somewhat more clear-headed now, and all too aware of how it split him open, stretching him painfully wide.

Heavy pressure rested deep in him, the bulbous head of Jack's cock and the prominent ridge of the crown nestled against a sensitive spot in his rectum. Norman didn't like the feeling, didn't like how it made something in his abdomen knot in trepidation.

Norman could almost hear the cogs of Jack's brain working in overdrive as he appeared to be in deep thought.

“...Yeah. I'll stop. It's not fun when you're not into it--” Mad Jack huffed, drawing out his penis at an agonisingly slow pace. Every pulsating vein dragged on Norman's tender muscles, until the offending length popped out wetly, the head resting against his contracting sphincter.

Daring to let out a shaky sigh of relief, the agent relaxed his body--

“--SIKE!” in one heart-stopping movement, Jack shoved the entire length of his cock back in, his bruising grip on Norman's hips tightening as he resumed his brutal pounding of the investigator's asshole.

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid, dude! How'd a dumb cunt like _you_ get into the FBI? Do you really think I'd give up this hole?” he buried himself to the hilt, coarse sandpaper-like pubic hair scratching the reddened skin of Norman's backside.

Mad Jack grunted, and Norman joined the chorus with his own howl of anguish.

“Owwww…” his legs ached, his ass hurt, his head, his arms, _everything_. He wanted to _die_ than go through any more of this hell. “Hit me, k-kill me, please, j-j-just stop thiiiis…” begged Norman, words slurred in his delirium.

A breath ghosted over his ear, wind whistling in Jack's nose. A snort of mirth rang deep within the canals to beat harshly against the investigator's eardrums.

“Ay, calm down. The sissies in prison used to bitch too, until…” the labourer shifted his angle. Norman groaned. “Until I hit the right spot, then they went like putty on my dick.”

He angled his hips again. Norman groaned, again - just pain.

Jack tried again. Again. Again - and again.

Norman took some smug satisfaction that Jack was failing to achieve whatever he was trying to do - until…

...until the man thrusted downwards, marbled cock skating over his prostate. The sensation made him gasp in shock as tingles shot up his spine, which made his toes curl in response.

“Ah, that's the spot. You're quivering like a motherfucker inside,” Norman bit down on his lip to stifle the moan that he had almost let slip, inadvertently rolling his hips in time with Jack pummelling the spot that was sending sparks all through his body.

“Do you want more? You want more of my cock in your slutty ass?”

Norman just wanted the man to shut up and cease his insistent babble of bad pornographic dialogue, but kept his snarky comments to himself. It always ended up worse for him when he didn't.

Luckily for him (or perhaps, unluckily?), Jack quieted down and took to concentrating on fucking the life out of Norman, diving into his loosening hole so hard that the flimsy door rattled on its hinges and the profiler's soft cock slapped against his trembling thighs.

It shouldn't have felt good. His cock remained resolutely flaccid, but...but…

...the prickles of _something_ unknown, the little sparks of fire that burned every nerve before fizzling out back to pain was too confusing for poor Norman's wrought-out brain and he let loose a breathy moan past his wobbling lips.

No. _No._

To be feeling pleasure from such a monster, his tormentor, was a cruel slap in the face from reality and made him feel pure _hatred_ at himself.

Nausea rippled through his gut in sudden waves, stomach churning until it felt like flipped over--

Acid rose in his throat, and Norman had just enough sense to turn his head as he vomited his breakfast of coffee and vodka on the floor, stringy strands of watery bile gushing past his lips.

Fresh tears streamed down his flushed cheeks as he heaved heavily, expelling the contents of his stomach - which wasn't a lot. Norman couldn't remember the last time he had actually eaten anything solid. No wonder his once lean body had atrophied into a softer, frailer shadow of his former self, hidden behind ill-fitting and unflattering suits.

Mad Jack barely acknowledged the disgusting act, only letting out a light ‘tsk’ in-between his feral groans of gratification.

“At least ya didn't chuck up all over my dick earlier…” Mad Jack mused, almost sounding _amused_ at the situation. “Good junkie, you didn't even get any on yourself, or more importantly - me.” the vile cretin ruffled a hand through Norman's hair, and shamefully he nearly leaned into the first soothing touch he had _had_ since...since…

...since Stanley's funeral, and the insincere sympathetic busybodies who patted his shoulder in mock comfort, whilst deep down blaming him for the death of one of the most promising agents in the bureau.

Norman couldn't even bear to think of Stanley when his traitorous body coiled tighter, reaching a peak that he hadn't been able to get to for _years_.

With a foul taste in his mouth, Norman spat onto the floor with a sense of queasiness still. He was incredibly discomforted - the strain of Mad Jack's intense hammering into him was hurting him all over, from the inside out.

Jack's hands squeezed painfully hard on his slim hips, the thrusts growing a little more abortive each time. His heavy sac slammed against Norman's taint during his frenzied motions and mannish howls, surely a sign of the larger male's impending orgasm.

“Ungh, fuck yeah - fuck, yeah, pig, keep making those noises with that weird-ass voice of yours - Goddamn slut! Junkie whore! You love it, don'tcha?!” Jack surged forward, deeper still, and Norman cried out, growing all too aware that he had been letting more of his shameful moans than he had realised.

It felt bad, it still hurt - so why was his body on fire? Yet he shivered too, goose bumps prickling upon his heated flesh as his nipples hardened to sensitive peaks, itchy in their need to be stimulated too.

The climax Norman was hurtling towards was unfamiliar. Never had his lonely late-night fumbling ever made every nerve in his body jolt and brain go soupy, disconnected and rebellious.

Norman was _scared_ of it. Scared of the pleasure; scared of the pain, scared, scared, scared, he didn't want to come, he couldn't, it wouldn't be right…

Yet his body grew hotter, sweat matting his hair and drool sticky against his chin.

He was going to come, from an ugly, vile bastard that was raping him. If Norman had the tears left, the thought would've been enough to make him cry harder.

A hand on his genitals made him jump, Mad Jack's oil-speckled hands pawing and tugging fruitlessly at his flaccid length, hands so big that he could even massage Norman's balls between his thick digits.

Whimpering, Norman cursed whatever God that was currently smiting him with such wickedness. It shouldn't feel good - he wasn't even hard for Christ's sake - but still his body wound up tighter, and tighter still, like a rubber band about to snap at any moment.

He didn't want to come. He didn't want to. No, no, no, no, _NO!_

“St- Stahp! Please - please - it feels weird, I don't like it, puhlease, stop, stop--”

Jack gave his member a warning squeeze, wheezing out words that instilled pure terror into Norman's heart - “I'm not stopping until I make you come on my dick like the sissy little fag you are, man! You're going to come with my nut filling you up - ungh, fuck! I'm gunna knock up this greedy ass! Take it, take it!”

_Mad Jack wasn't wearing a condom_.

It should have registered sooner. He had seen his fair share of traumatised victims after their harrowing experience with a rape kit, a hollowed-out look on their faces and dead eyes sunken into their tear-stained sockets, garish against their paled complexions.

Awful. Awful when he recalled the leaflets clutched within their shaking hands as they made their statements, numbers and advice about possible STIs emboldened in cold, medical sans-serifs.

ARI hadn't brought up any records about Mad Jack having diseases - but that didn't hold water. Jack probably never got himself checked at clinics in the first place.

Chills shot down Norman's spine at the thought - even if he _did_ escape, the loathsome excuse for a human being might've tainted him...possibly permanently.

Norman briefly toyed with the question of what would kill him first - his Triptocaine and ARI abuse, or a disease?

Although there was always the grim possibility that he wasn't going to escape at all. His corpse would be dumped in the graveyard of junk, and it was unfortunately an apt way for him to meet his demise.

Being thrown out into the rest of the trash - it suited Norman.

He threw his head back and howled out in anguish.

“Not inside, not inside, I'm begging you, p-please…”

Mad Jack just pushed his nauseatingly slick cock into Norman's loosened hole further, “‘not inside, not inside~’ he says!” the labourer sang, “you know what I say to that? TOO FUCKING BAD!”

With a grip firm on Norman's penis, Jack grabbed behind the smaller man's knee with his other hand and left him to precariously balance on his one wobbling leg as he brought up the other, pulling him wider and pounding onto Norman's prostate with a ferocity that made him choke mid-wail.

He was coming. Orgasming in a way that was atypical, the waves of shameful pleasure bubbling their way to the surface of his skin. Contractions in every muscle of Norman's body was nothing to the immense pressure deep inside, rolls of hot, tingly warmth encapsulating him from the wrinkles of his brain, right down to the aching tips of his toes.

It was one of the most amazing and worst things Norman had ever felt - a mind-blowing sensation that couldn't compare to his usual lonely nocturnal emissions of rutting against bedsheets, sullying his partner's memory as he got off to the distant echoes of Stanley's dulcet tones reverberating in the chambers of his mind.

And it was awful for the exact same reason - to get off while an ex-convict called him degrading slurs, taking what he wanted with no care, no kindness, no _love_ and purely seeking out his own carnal release was just terrible.

Brutalising Norman's prostate in his typical brutish way, Jack's beastly grunting was a testament to the rapidly approaching conclusion of his own sinful apex--

Norman's body quivered in his prolonged orgasm as Jack gave a final few pumps before he stilled with a strangled, almost comical cry, his cock pulsating and wet heat filling the investigator's insides.

The overflowing semen tickled as it oozed from Norman's ass and seeped down his crack, an impressive quantity considering the investigator himself hadn't ejaculated at all.

They remained in that position for what seemed like forever, Norman's wrought body screeching from overuse and Jack's erratic breathing evening out somewhat.

A dullness washed over Norman, a buzzing fuzz enrapturing his mind as reality seemed to slip from his grasp. Chilliness seeped into the marrow of his bones as the static in his ears drowned out every obscene noise barring the rhythmic beat of rain against corrugated iron.

He didn't want to be there anymore. He was done.

A rustle of leaves, the arid scent of scorched sand, the silkiness of water against his skin and a breath-taking purpling sky engaged all his senses--

The drugs were calling him, he needed them, and he needed them _now_.

Norman didn't know when he had managed to end up kneeling on the floor with his ass in the air and eyes staring at the slab of grey underneath him, nor had he felt Jack remove himself.

Crashing back to reality, bassy crinkles and a dull _thump_ made a weary Norman lift his head to look at the other man in the room.

Mad Jack loomed over him, imposing figure made only more petrifying by his long, thick cock jutting out like a weapon. Harder than ever, and coated with a layer of semen and possibly blood.

Finishing removing his overalls (but leaving his mud-covered boots on for reasons that eluded the agent), Jack's sneering face looked down at him, every contour of his face ugly in the unflattering, depressing lighting of the shed.

Norman couldn't help but feel like a small, weak animal about to be devoured by a predator.

Wordlessly, Jack swung a leg over Norman with his boots placed either side of the smaller man's knees, crouching down as he sunk his length back into the gaping hole that had only _just_ been fucked open.

Hands on Norman's shoulders held him down in place, forehead and knees grating against the floor as Jack began to assault him once more.

_“...the last time I took this shit; I didn’t stop ploughing this chick for over three hours…”_

Shaken at the flashback, Norman couldn't even form words, his tongue heavy in his mouth and eyes wide. To go through something like that once was bad enough - but _several_?

“Nononononono--” attempting to scoot forward to expel the cock from inside of him, but writhed in agony when Jack forced him back - the man's monstrous length going far too deeply for his liking, almost like it was going to drag out his guts with every pull back.

Norman didn't give up - he couldn't take the unbearable pressure on his overworked prostate. And every time, Jack would simply just plunge in further, either oblivious or deliberately ignorant of Norman's calls of distress.

Throat too sore to scream and energy levels completely depleted, the agent squirmed and fussed tiredly, kicking his feet against the floor and shaking his head from side to side, trying to squeamishly ignore the sloppy sounds of Jack fucking the previous round of cum back into his ass.

Norman detested the submissiveness of the position he was in; Jack's huge body shadowing over his own and his powerful, muscled legs allowing him to stab his girth in Norman's messed-up asshole over and over, the impact of his pelvis making the agent's entire frame jostle forward.

“Ow, ow--” Norman pitifully bleated, “--your h-h-hurting me--”

Huffing, Jack carded his fingers through the pained man's damp hair, craning his neck back. Norman grunted in pain, but perked his ears up at the gentle _clink_ of plastic - could it be…?

The vial glinted as Jack swung from side to side in front of his eyes. He followed it, hope surging through his chest.

“Ya’ want this? Might take the edg--”

“--Yes, yes, yes--” Jack yanked at his hair, “--owww…”

“Interrupt me again and I'll get the belt again, pig,” Norman jerked his head in an attempt to nod, but the labourer pulled harder at his locks, swivelling his hips to grind against the innermost spot of the investigator's rectum.

“Nah, man. I wanna _hear_ you say sorry.”

Norman spoke through gritted teeth, “...S-Sorry.”

“...Good junkie,” Jack patted his hair patronisingly, “ _anyway_ , as I was sayin’ - do you want this shit or not?”

“ _Yes_.” breathed Norman shamelessly, too beaten and broken to give one iota about his pride.

“You can beg better than that!”

“Yes, _please_.”

Mad Jack scoffed, “is that _all_ you can manage, bro? I'm disappointed…”

The tube vanished from Norman's line of sight.

Grief over the loss of his possible salvation hit him, and in a fit of hysteria he threw whatever self-worth he had left to the soggy winds of Philadelphia.

“No! Please - please, give it to me, I want it, I _need_ it, it hurts, please, I have to, I'll do anything--” Norman babbled, surprised when plastic touched his bloody nostril mid-sentence.

“God, I changed my mind - just shut up already. Your whining is almost making me as limp as you…” Jack smiled down at him, sweat rolling off his flat nose and splashing onto Norman's brow. “Go on, snort it already, druggie.”

Norman didn't have to be told twice. Swallowing the clot of his misery in the back of his throat and trying not to retch at the slimy concoction of mucus-y blood sliding down his oesophagus, he inhaled.

The luminescent powder tickled the fine nasal hairs as he sniffed, sounding just like the pig Mad Jack often called him, but he didn't care; the blissful hit of Triptocaine was far more important than his pride as a man.

Time stopped. Nothing was real anymore - twinges of ecstasy shot through Norman's body as he took more, _more_ of the drug, and allowed a long, shuddering moan escape as the pain, hurt, fear thawed from his tortured body.

It was so good that his eyes rolled back, and everything felt so, so great, so light - even Mad Jack's cock that continued to piston in and out was no longer the blade that caused him agony - only pleasure, so much pleasure--

Norman didn't even realise he had been close to coming, but the clenching of his balls and throbbing in his shaft was the only warning he had when something hot dribbled down his leg - even soft, he had managed to ejaculate.

Dignity in tatters, he uttered words that would haunt him forever; “m-m...more…”

“Oh?” Jack pulled out, teasingly dipping the head of his penis back into Norman's stretched anus before diving back in balls-deep, “you want more of that…” Norman keened, “or _this_?” the emptied bottle of Triptocaine was thrown away, only to be promptly replaced with another, hanging from Jack's fingertips like a bauble on a Christmas tree.

The sweet, delicious nectar that was his undoing was so, so close - a distant ring of alarm bells rang in the back of Norman's conscience, telling him that one tube was _enough_ , yet…

He stuck his tongue out and barely grazed the vial with the tip, caring little if it had been one of the ones Jack had shoved into him earlier.

Mad Jack let out a noise between a laugh and a low grunt, cock pulsating while warmth radiated from far inside Norman. An audible squelch rang out clear whenever the man thrusted now; balls rock-hard as they banged onto Norman's perineum, the impact so strong a slight jolt of pain registered in Norman's drugged-out state.

Nothing slowed down Jack, not even an orgasm.

Not that Norman even cared. As degrading as it was to admit, Jack could fuck him for hours upon hours - maybe even a whole day if he just kept plying the miserable, sad excuse of a man with his drugs.

Another tube touched the agent's nostril; panting, he breathed it in, messily mumbling the words “thank you, thank you,” until saliva coated his chin and trailed down his neck.

Pure euphoria ricocheted through every ounce of Norman's being. He'd never taken more than one tube at a time; always too well aware of just how pure the concoction in the bottles were.

_I could get hooked on this._

If he could chastise himself he would - however, Norman was too lost in the purgatory of his virtually-induced delusionary world that was ARI and the nightmare that was his life.

Kinder than reality, crueller than the dream-esque world of ARI- Norman hung on the precipice of what was real and what was not, the pain from the stone grating against his knees and nipples on each thrust counteracted by the numbing ecstasy that came from Triptocaine.

At last, Norman was content.

Jack wasn't.

The used vial clattered to the floor and another took its place; Norman jerked his head in rejection. He had _had_ enough.

Jack, visibly pissed at his refusal, removed his hand from Norman's hair and used it to cover the man's mouth.

Instantly Norman realised what was going to happen. He needed air, to pant - but Jack's palm against his lips constricted his breathing, already shallow breaths making his lungs burn at the lack of oxygen.

He inhaled through his nose, taking in the unwanted extra dose of Triptocaine.

Norman felt weird.

The bottle emptied, and yet again, another took its place.

Something was happening, something was going wrong - dots and coloured auras appeared in his peripheral vision, his eyes rolled and the feeling akin to that of thousands of tiny ants marching all over his brain made Norman's skin crawl. It wasn't right, something was wrong, wrong, wrong--

Heat, so hot. Foamy saliva bubbled on his lips as his body seized and began to convulse violently, jerking and spasming while thick fingers prodded their way into his slack mouth to grab at his tongue.

Norman wanted to scream, scream for help, for Blake, for an ambulance, his parents, _Stanley_ \--

He couldn't make a sound other than gurgling, chewing on Jack's fingers and tasting grease and blood on his fingertips. Consciousness slipping away and something wet pooling around his knees, Norman fluttered his eyes shut as Mad Jack jeered:

“You fuckin’ wet yourself, you disgusting dope. At least you've gone tight..fuck, fuck--”

The world went black as Jack came inside him, again.

**|||\\\\\|||///|||**

Norman would've vomited if he could of upon his awakening. The headache was blinding, made worse by Mad Jack's brilliant bald bonce glinting in the light as he loomed over him.

Something else glinted at him too in the corner of his eye, partially hidden underneath his pile of sodden clothes - it was...

Blearily, the agent stirred. He was flat on his back on the small makeshift bed in the room, and it felt like the most comfortable thing Norman had ever led on in his life.

It would've been, if his knees weren't drawn back till they were nearly touching his ears and slung over Jack's shoulders.

No doubt about it - this position was worse than the last one. At least he hadn't had to look at Jack's ugly face before, but that's all he could see through his foggy vision right then and there.

Mad Jack looked crazed; a wild look in his eyes as Norman groggily regained his bearings. White powder was crusted underneath his nostrils, fresh.

“Wakey wakey, princess.” Jack said, grinning at the man underneath him. It took some time for Norman to realise that his hands had been untied - and that Jack hadn't stopped fucking him during his state of unconsciousness if the aching strain in his legs and ass was anything to go by.

Groaning in discomfort and somewhat relieved he had been out of it for a few rounds, Norman weakly thumped his fists against Jack's sweaty, wide chest. The man's heart was beating rapidly, the palpitations so intense that Norman almost asked if his tormenter was _okay_.

“Still fightin’...even though you just had a fuckin’ fit. Can you just, like, cool it? I'm tryna’ get off here.” to make a point, Jack pulled out his cock that was slathered with thick, white cum, and Norman watched as it was guided back in, disappearing when it was fully sheathed inside of him.

The weaning effects of his Triptocaine made him feel everything again, and his breath caught when Jack pummelled away so viciously that whatever cum had been dispensed in his ass was scraped out, leaking around Jack's dick and oozing down Norman's back due to the angle.

Jack's weight on him was crushing; the puffs of breaths on his face was nauseating, and the continuing, endless assault was devastating.

He had just had a seizure, yet Norman's biggest wish was for Jack to numb him again, pile up his bruised and battered body with drugs until he couldn't _think_ , to tear himself from the eternal torment he was going through. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd die and be free, forever.

But God wasn't that forgiving. Norman had learned that over the years, and he had flushed any semblance of faith down the toilet along with his integrity when he had first pressed the Triptocaine tube to his nose.

Norman drifted off into his thoughts, watching memories and his dreams, hopes, aspirations and successes flutter by as Jack reamed him without a care in the world, his lips sucking bruises onto the agent's neck and dark hands roaming all over the pale body, leaving a trail of grease and irremovable grime that would taint Norman's skin forever.

The creeping fingers latched onto a sore, irritated nipple, but Norman couldn't muster the strength to cry out. Instead he let his tears fall in silence, just wanting everything to end as Jack stopped mouthing at his neck in order to tug the other nipple between his teeth.

Norman allowed Jack to use him. He couldn't protest, couldn't feel shame as another orgasm hit him in the gut unexpectedly, nor did he feel sick as yet another load of semen was deposited in his rectum, so full of cum that Norman swore he felt his sloshing around in his stomach.

There was more to come, more positions, more obscene words to shatter Norman's fragile mentality - more, more, more.

The next few moments, minutes, hours, maybe even days passed by in snapshots. Norman recognised he was probably dissociating from his trauma, or perhaps his seizure had permanently damaged his brain...but there wasn't anything he could do.

Nothing he could do, but wrap his legs around Jack's hips as Jack fucked into him standing up, his sheer size and strength keeping Norman off the ground.

Nothing he could do, when Jack shoved him back onto the bed and collapsed his entire weight onto Norman's back, each movement rubbing the investigator’s soft, overly sensitive cock against the sheets until he came with a mute whimper and the smallest trickle of semen staining the sheets.

Nothing he could do, when he sat on his heels and watched with dead eyes as Mad Jack sprinkled Triptocaine onto his soaked cock, looking expectedly at Norman.

Nothing he could do, when he reached out and swallowed Jack's cock whole with no resistance, moaning wantonly at both the chemical and organic taste of cum, himself, and the poison he regularly ingested.

Nothing he could do, when Jack forced his head down, making Norman roll his balls in his mouth before forcing him to tongue at a spot behind his sac, then lower, lower, until Norman was sucking on Jack's sweaty asshole for minutes before the bigger man came messily onto the agent's hair and forehead.

Nothing he could do, as he was pulled onto the bed and manipulated into riding Jack's cock in a manner that would make a bona fide whore blush - fucking himself onto the appendage with a velocity that Norman didn't even know he had the energy for.

Nothing he could do, when the heat of orgasm pooled in his stomach and he stopped his bouncing, to jerkily rolling his hips until his thighs spasmed and a weak spurt of semen shot across Jack's stomach.

Nothing. He. Could. Do.

Norman didn't know how long it had been, but it felt like centuries when Mad Jack finally rolled off him. His hole felt so empty - _not_ having the other man's massive cock inside him felt wrong, now.

Cum puddled underneath his ass, and Mad Jack stretched open his rim to look. His hole made a disgustingly wet sound as he squeezed out some of the fluid inside of him.

“Fuck, that's hot,” Jack's fingers probed at the spread-open anus, his breath making a little wheezing sound as he squished his own release back into the twitching, worn-out junkie.

Seemingly losing interest at the unresponsive addict, Jack stopped fingering the ruined hole, “well...thanks for being a good fuck and all, but,” he got up from the bed and walked over to his discarded overalls, “but I think it's time for us to end this--”

The glint of a switchblade knife shone for a few short moments before an enormous _bang_ resounded in the small space.

Mad Jack's eyes bulged as blood seeped from the gunshot wound in his forehead, slumping backwards onto the wall until he hit the ground, leaving a trail of brain matter and blood until he hit his resting place.

For the first time that day, Norman's hands were steady as he gripped onto the gun that had previously been discarded in the room. It had been close - hidden mostly underneath his shed clothes next to the bed. By chance he had managed to notice it during his reawakening the second time. He'd probably be dead if he hadn't.

Sure, he had wished for death - but he had a case to solve. He _had_ to save Shaun Mars. No amount of trauma was going to stop him from doing his job. His own inadequacies weren't an excuse to let an innocent child die.  

He stood up with his legs wobbling like jelly. Ransacking the desk, he found a few tissues and began the arduous task of cleaning himself up, hollow inside, metaphorically and literally.

Picking up his damp clothes, Norman spared a glance at the vile bastard that had defiled him.

There was no doubt Jack was dead, but it didn't feel like justice. The naked form before him with his finally soft cock lolling against his thigh was mocking him.

A sick impulse ripped through Norman - to pick up the knife Jack was going to use to kill him and butcher the organ that had caused him so much misery, perhaps stamp on it over and over before chucking it into the acid bath.

Quelling the urge, Norman dressed. The clothes were moist, caked in mud and crumpled. He needed a shower, a hot one to remove the chill that began to seep into his core.

Shower, coffee, and a nap. It sounded like _heaven_. Medical treatment could wait - he didn't have the time to spare.

Norman collected the Triptocaine tubes and stuffed them into his pockets. He assumed that he had them all. Checking the computer on the desk, he found it had no CCTV connected - luckily for him. A search of Mad Jack's overalls brought up his car keys and wallet.

As if raping him wasn't enough, the man had tried to rob him too.

He looked around. He'd come back later to deal with his...mess. Dispose of the body, clean the evidence. With so much oil lying around, maybe the best course of action would be to just set the whole place alight.

The option to phone the police wasn't there. Norman couldn't bear the thought of Blake's face twisted in amusement as he detailed the sickening acts Mad Jack had put him through - he would have rather had died by Jack slitting his throat than listen to Blake's petty remarks and taunting.

Straightening his tie and walking to the door, he only turned back to spit on Mad Jack's corpse.

On autopilot, Norman slammed the shed door behind him. He found his ARI glasses on the floor where he and Jack had fought, but tucked them away. The Triptocaine, the abuse of virtual reality - he needed to stop it.

And he would. Once the case was done. He needed to find Shaun, for the boy's sake, his own too.

And most importantly, Ethan Mars’. The father had looked positively miserable, downtrodden and _sad_ during their brief meeting in the police station.

But his eyes - they shone with love. Ethan Mars loved his son, and Norman knew that as a fact. He knew what the eyes of an indifferent, unloving father looked like. Ethan was not one of those fathers.

Norman unlocked his car and hopped in, mind racing a million miles an hour on what to do next. Deliberately. He didn't want to remember the past few hours, he would crumble--

Catching sight of himself in the rear-view mirror was a shock. Crusted semen and blood streaked his face and hair, bruises underneath his bloodshot eyes, stark against his pallid skin.

It was as if a floodgate opened, and everything came back. The lacerations on his body stung as phantom hands on his hips dug into his flesh until they touched bone, the fear, the pleasure, the guilt and shame overwhelmingly _real_. It _had_ happened. The cum leaking out of his hole and soiling his suit pants, and the welts on his sore wrists were all reminders.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Norman screamed out, banging his head over and over against the steering wheel.

But there wasn't anyone out there, not even the devil, to hear his anguish, so it died out in the downpour of rain and the honking of his car's horn.

**Author's Note:**

> 50/50 about creating a sequel to this, honestly. I'd like to expand the backstory into something a little more coherent but I'd like to go back to DBH too. 
> 
> Big thanks to the degenerate fucks that inspired this. You know who you are. :)


End file.
